Like father, like son
by DreamerMatrix
Summary: rated for a tiny bit of possibly offensive language. please R'n'R. Title says it all.
1. Sam Junior

Disclaimer: The Discworld, and all characters thereof, are the property of Terry Pratchett. What follows is a noncommercial enterprise, and my first DW fanfic.  
  
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The multiverse is a strange place, where anything can happen. The existence, then, of the great turtle A'Tuin, who moves through its* assigned galaxy carrying the documented (but unchartered by earthlings) Discworld on its back. On top of the four elephants, of course.  
  
Death looked at the two hourglasses in front of him. They both had enough of sand left in them. It was just curiousity that made him look at them.  
  
TELL ME ALBERT, Death intoned in a voice like the grave, WHY IS IT THAT HUMANS FEEL THE NEED TO NAME THEIR CHILDREN AFTER THEMSELVES?  
  
But Albert had wondered off, muttering about Cammomile Tea.  
  
---  
  
"Buggrit, buggrem. I told 'em. Millenium hand and shrimp!"  
  
"Hello there Mister Foul Old Ron, sir," came a voice.  
  
"Bugg'roff, copper," came a voice from ground level. It was Gaspode, Ron's thinking-brain dog.**  
  
"Now then, Gaspode. you shouldn't talk to the lad like that." Sam Vimes spoke out from the shadows where he'd been watching his sixteen year old son. He had noted with great pride that while Sam Junior tended to act like Carrot, as he had just done with Foul Old Ron, the lad also had, when needed, a stare that made even Vetinari's eyes water, and a left hook that could send Detritus flying. He also had his father's flare for fighting, instead of following that idiot the Marquise of Fantillier. His son, the future Earl of Ankh, was a dirty fighter worthy of the Shades. Sam Vimes liked to know that his boy wasn't following the example that bastard Rust was trying to set. The Vimes family were for the people. Sam Vimes himself had been born in Cockbill Street. There was no way in hell his boy was going to be one of those speciesist xenophobic better-than-thou nobs. No, he'd talked Sybil into letting him teach the boy. He'd learned to walk like a copper from the moment he could stand on his own two feet for more than five minutes at a time. He could, like Carrot, recite the Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork from memory, but as a noble he could do it in several languages, which, despite Vimes' wishes, he'd learnt at the Assassins Guild.   
  
Luckily for the boy, he'd not wanted to actually be an Assassin. Usually, this would have resulted in his being exhumed, but Vimes had made it known, in no uncertain terms, that any Assassin coming within a hundred feet of his son, with assassination in mind, would find out the true meaning of 'privelege'.*** For a start, they'd lose several. At least, if the lad's godfathers had anything to do with it. Carrot and Vetinari could be very persuasive.. Now, very much against his mother's wishes, Samuel Vimes the Second had desired a wish to join the police force. His father had been delighted, naturally, but had hidden it carefully from his wife.  
  
Lance-Corporal Sam Vimes was a credit to the uniform. A dead-cert for the Commander's position in future. He had, however, told Vetinari that if he was going to join the police force, he was damned well going to do it properly, and start at the bottom. The lad could wrap Vetinari around his little finger. He'd become the Watch's official spokesperson to the Palace as soon as he'd joined, on the basis that one Sam Vimes could do the job just as well as the other. It was the Commander of the Watch who had signed the chitty which paid his son an extra dollar a month plus allowances for the position. Instead of throwing it on the fire for a change.  
  
*attempts to discover the sex of the Great A'Tuin have so far proved inconclusive.  
  
**Like a guide dog for them blind, only a thinking dog for... you get the picture...  
  
*** It means 'private law'. and it was something which, as a copper, Sam Vimes made use of a lot.  
  
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End of Chapter. please RnR. 


	2. Taxes?

DISCLAIMER: DW, and all characters thereof, are the property and creation of comic writing genius Terry Pratchett, not myself. This is a non-commercial venture, please do not sue me.  
  
SHOUT-OUTS:   
  
DominoFalling, who asked for more... who said them as asks don't get? ((LOL, Thief of Time reference))  
  
Blake: My beta-reader, I guess. Anyways, Blake, you rock.  
  
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Sam Vimes, future Earl of Ankh, sat to the left of his god-father as the council metting progressed. Lord Rust was making a fuss, as usual, about the state of the city's finances. Sam looked at the man, his green eyes catching the man in that deadly glare which even Vetinari couldn't outstare.  
  
"Lord Rust," the boy said softly, "if you want to help the city finances, you could always pay your taxes. Captain Carrot is getting... nervous about the lack of tax payers in the city. My father assures me that the Captain knows the name of every tax-dodger in the city."  
  
Rust sat there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, and at sixteen years old Sam Vimes Junior had just enough self control to keep his face straight. Rust flabberghasted. His father would be sorry he'd missed it. But, of course, Sam got an imperceptible nod of approval from both Lord Downey, head of the Assassin's guild, and from his god-father, Lord Havelock Vetinari himself. Several other members of the council, in particular the representatives of the guilds of Accountants, Lawyers and Thieves, had the decency to mutter distractedly about how the cheques were in the mail, and they'd misplaced tax payers' forms and the like.   
  
"You...you...you..." Rust didn't have a word to hand to describe the young earl apparent come lance-corporal adequately. He'd called the boy's father 'rank bad hat' once, but then Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh, was an insolent upstart. Lance Corporal Vimes, on the other hand, was a second-generation insolent upstart, but with noble blood in him from his mother's side. He watched as Rust turned an interesting shade of reddish-purple, before Vetinari cut in with "But of course, I could not call in the tax men on everyone. No. As I have said before, Ankh-Morpork is a poor city, while many of it's inhabitants are extremely rich."  
  
"Of course, His Grace the Duke of Ankh Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, is the richest of us all," Rust commented, knowing how much the elder Sam Vimes hated the full title. Sam Vimes Junior smiled.  
  
"And naturally, Lord Rust, my father, his Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, has paid his taxes. It's easier than facing Captain Carrot every day."  
  
"Gentleman, and Sam, do not overly tax yourselves as to the situation."  
  
Vetinari's comment ellicited an uncomfortable chuckle from members of the council too new to the position to know that the Patrician, like Sam a former student of the Assassin's Guild, was not joking.  
  
"Did I say something funny?" There was that look again. The one which annoyed Commander Sam Vimes so much that the man, now in his fifties, dealt with it by delegating those duties, Watch-related or otherwise to lance-corporal Vimes, 16 years old and, thus far, the only person known to the citizens of Ankh-Morpork as being more of a snake than Vetinari. Sam Junior could outstare his own reflection. Vetinari, on the other hand, with his steepled fingers and a stare which always seemed to be looking at you even when you weren't in the same room could only manage a draw. But he still never let you break that predatory stare. Even werewolves, as Sergeant-at-Arms Angua would testify, felt uncomfortable under that look.   
  
Sam looked around, to see if anyone dared reply. He was definitely Ankh-Morporkian, his attitude towards street theatre, in public or otherwise, being the more the better, so long as I'm a spectator. Rust coughed uncomfortably, and the younger members of the Council were all ready to deny it was ever them that did it, except they knew the crime and punishment theory. Not that chuckling was a crime, but that stare always made you feel guilty.   
  
Mrs Rosie Palm, of the Seamstresses Guild, spoke up, relieving the chucklers fears a little. "I believe our younger, yet still esteemed, council members thought you made a pun, or play on words, Havelock."  
  
"Ah."  
  
It was one of those Ah which said a lot while meaning absolutely nothing. Or, more accurately, meaning a different thing to everyone. Which was something else Vetinari was very good at. Creating disharmony amongst the groups whilst making sure that the individuals knew that he was the best possible Patrician that Ankh-Morpork could have. Unlike Winder, whose death he'd played a minor part in, and Snapcase, Vetinari was sane. And, as has been chronicled, when it comes to getting things done, sane beats mad hands down.  
  
((AN1: Vimes' age: The author figures it like this. In Night Watch, Sam Vimes Senior is sent twenty years back in time, where his younger self is perhaps 16, 17 or 18, a wet behind the ears copper. Which means that Sam Vimes, at that time, was at most 38. Add on the 16 years since Sam Vimes Jnr was born, that'd make Sam Vimes Senior 54 max. And Vetinari 53 max, since he wasn't a prefect, therefore not in his final year, so 17 max at the time when he killed Winder.  
  
AN2: Crime-punishment: Someone gets punished for a crime. if they happened to be the one who committed said crime, then all credit where it's due to the Watch. If not, then they were undoubtedly guilty of something. This was Ankh-Morpork, after all.)) 


End file.
